


The Witch of 221B Baker Street

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A four-hundred year old curse, A happy ending for some, Cat and Little Owl partnership, Child Death, Kidnapping, M/M, Shared Sensory Perception, The Work and its advantages, Witch living in London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5017363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of a little old lady and her cat, of an owl, and a kidnapper, and a curse four-hundred years old. There is more at stake than the safety of the missing child - they have to solve the mystery to reap their reward</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Witch of 221B Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleleafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/gifts).



> For the month of October a good friend of mine has changed her name, and this inspired me to write this fic, so for you my very dear Macabre Laughter, I hope you enjoy this little tale...  
> At the moment it stands alone, but may one day extend to multiple chapters....

It wasn’t unusual to see a black cat stalking through a graveyard. Even old and no longer used graveyards held places and things that interested curious cats. However this wasn’t any old graveyard, and this cat was more than just curious, he was a curiosity.

Larger than the average house cat, sleek and jet black but for its strange grey eyes, it appeared to check behind it before gracefully slipping through the rusting metal gates to melt into the dark shadows of the centuries old gravestones. It was a cat on a mission.

Fairly central to the graveyard was a dilapidated chapel, a small building with gothic stonework and broken windows. The door had been replaced at one point, but now there was just wood nailed across the doorframe, and rain fell constantly through the holes in the roof.

Nobody came to the chapel anymore. And maybe that was just as well, because as darkness fell and the cat picked his way fastidiously through the wind-blown – now soggy – papers and fallen roof tiles and masonry, to find one of the only dry corners of the room.

A soft fluttering from the eaves made the cat look up. A shadow peeled itself away from the rotting rafters and glided gently down, alighting on a small pile of rubble.

“John.” The cat’s voice was a deep purr, resonant in the abandoned chapel.

To the cat’s sharp eyes the Little Owl looked indignant, his feathers ruffled and puffed around his cheeks.

“Couldn’t I at least have had an hour to get some breakfast, before you come to drag me off goodness knows where?” The owl’s unusual blue eyes stared hard at the cat, who only made matters worse by pushing his nose into the ruffled light brown plumage in a soft nuzzle, making the feather puff up even further.

“You can hunt as we go. Mrs Hudson wants to see us as soon as possible.”

With a twitch of his head that looked suspiciously like a curt nod the owl took off, and as he flew through the window the cat thought he heard him say ‘Well, she can see you anytime she pleases...’

xXx

The kitchen window of 221B Baker Street was left open just far enough for a sleek cat and a short stocky owl to get through without hurting themselves.

Despite stopping to catch and eat a couple of wood mice from Regents Park John was still the first to arrive, and he flew through to where Mrs Hudson sat knitting in front of the fire.

She looked up as he settled on the back of the sofa, nodding her head in acknowledgement.

Moments later there was a soft thud as the cat leapt down from the kitchen counter and strolled through to the lounge. With a total disregard for the human and owl already present he went straight to the sofa and sprawled indolently along its cushions.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson tutted, staring at him with gimlet eyes.

Sherlock raised his head and merely blinked. John snickered. The cat turned his head and looked up at the owl.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing.” He said, swiping a paw languidly around his ear. “It’s not as if she’s going to throw me out, or withhold my food rations.”

“Stop it you two! I don’t need your bickering tonight, we have work to do.”

John tilted his head to one side, the only sign that he had heard. Sherlock’s whiskered cheeks pulled back in a grin and he rolled over, stretching his feet.

Putting aside her knitting, Mrs Hudson picked up the newspaper and started to read.

 _‘Two nights ago a child was abducted from her home in Church Street. Although she was found safely the next morning, wandering around Regents Park. She had no recollection of where she had been or who had taken her.’_ The old woman looked up to see if her companions were listening.  John hadn’t moved a muscle but Sherlock, despite his closed eyes and air of ennui, had his ears forward - the only sign that he was actually awake.

The old woman continued to read. _‘Last night, a young boy was taken from outside his school in Lisson Grove while waiting for his older brother. This morning he too was found in Regents Park. Like the missing girl, he was found in the early hours, shortly before dawn, and he had no knowledge of where he had been.’_

“This is happening on my patch.”

Sherlock said nothing, John just blinked in agreement.

“I want it to stop. It will give the area a bad reputation.”

“Have you considered,” Sherlock sat up and curled his tail around his front paws. “That someone might be deliberately doing this to draw you out?”

Mrs Hudson just raised an eyebrow.

“That will have been the first thing she thought about.” John piped up, coughing gently and clearing his throat. “And I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

“John Watson, if you are about to cough up a pellet I suggest you go outside to do it.”

“Sorry Mrs H.” The strangest thing was, if anyone had been close enough to observe they would have seen the Little Owl blush furiously as it launched itself out towards the open kitchen window. By the time he came back the cat had schooled his features to an expression of disdain, but John knew he had taken great delight at his unfortunate timing.

“Now, to business.” Turning in her chair, Mrs Hudson pulled a small side table towards her. On it stood an old bowl, Cornish Celtic in origin, which was half filled with water in which several decorative floating candles sat. “On the early evening news there was a report of a third child taken, and the police have insinuated that there is something more, something that happens to the children that hasn’t been made public.”

“Another puzzle for us to solve then.” Sherlock purred softly.

Carefully removing the candles and putting them to one side, Martha Hudson waited until Sherlock had repositioned himself on the arm of her chair, and John had landed gently on her shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and held her hands, palms downward, over the water.

The words she spoke were ancient, yet they were words that both Sherlock and John were familiar with, they heard them chanted many times over the centuries.

And they waited. Waited until the water in the bowl started to ripple and shift; swirling first one way and then the other before settling.

“Show me!” the old lady’s voice hissed across the night-time air, and both creatures shivered as it strafed icy fingers down their spines.

In the bowl the water slowly froze, and on its surface a picture started to build.

xXx

The house was no different from its neighbours. Built in the Regency period, its three storey frontage looked out over the trees in Regent’s Park, making it one of the more sought after properties in the area.

Slowly the image in the water changed, like a camera pulling back to reveal more of the picture, panning around and moving, as if being held by someone walking along the pavement.

A glimpse of a street name…

“Sussex Place – John, go!” Mrs Hudson’s eyes never left the divination vessel.

The owl gave that strange twitch nod again, and was off out of the window without further ado.

Stretching Sherlock moved closer to the table, however he was careful not to disturb either the bowl or the witch as she continued her lecanomancy; he was listening for a familiar voice.

“John, let me see.” Martha’s voice became harsh and hoarse as she commanded the owl.

It was not extra sensory perception, more a shared sensory experience that this strange group of friends used to communicate, all they had to do was open their minds to it, and open his mind John did.

Immediately the picture became slightly blurred at the edges, ghosting as if a film had been recorded on an over-used video tape – the witch was seeing through the owls eyes. As he swooped towards Sussex Place the pictures started to re-align, John’s view of the world showing the same streets, the same house. Sussex place came into view, and the dark figure of a man walking along the outer circle.

“Is that him John?” Her voice, softer now, coaxing.

A burst of speed put John ahead of the man, but as he circled overhead his keen eyes saw everything about his potential quarry.

“It’s the man we saw, but he’s not our guy” he said, and his voice rippled from the water under the ice. “He’s on his way to work, I can see…”

John’s focus sharpened and both witch and cat could see the harassed way the man kept looking at his watch. In his hand was a pass, and under his cheap overcoat was the uniform of a Madame Tussaud’s security guard.

“Why not him?” The old lady asked.

“His shift…”

“… won’t finish until the building opens to the public, too late to leave the child in Regent’s Park.” Sherlock finished John’s sentence.

“Oi! If you know so bloody much _you_ come and do the hard part – I’d like to see you fly!” John fumed, but neither cat nor witch took any notice.

“Who else is on the move tonight?”

One by one people came into view, a couple walking hand in hand, a young lady who had obviously been celebrating with work colleagues (‘why else,’ Sherlock asked, ‘would she be drunk when it was barely nine o’clock?’), several businessmen discussing contracts as they headed towards the underground.

John was circling around, broadening his vision and taking in part of the park when a suspicious movement caught his attention. Mrs Hudson saw it too.

“Why did he do that John?” her voice was a sibilant whisper in his head.

“A police car drove past.”

“He stopped.” Sherlock said to no-one in particular, “And moved into shadows as the car drew level with him.”

“Exactly.” John agreed, “And he’s heading in the direction of Baker Street.”

“Go Sherlock, go see what he’s hiding, and where.”

xXx

It didn’t take Sherlock long to find the man John had identified, John was still following him but at such a height, and in heavy enough shadow, that he couldn’t be easily seen by the naked human eye. Sherlock’s cat eyes however were more powerful, and knew exactly what to look for.

Keeping the man in sight he weaved dexterously from railing to doorstep to the deeper shadows under stationary cars. Every time he broke cover he could see John watching over him.

The two creatures moved in a harmony borne of years of practice. When it came to the Work their bickering and banter was more for show, and while both of them had different views of why this was important they shared a common goal – their reward for a case solved.

Their mysterious prey had almost reached Baker Street itself when he suddenly ran up the front steps to a large, white painted house with a ‘For Sale by Auction’ sign lying on the ground against the front wall of the house. As fast as he was, Sherlock wasn’t quick enough to slip through the door before it banged shut.

xXx

Above it all John saw everything.

“Bloody Hellfire!” he ejaculated, his voice echoing in Sherlock’s head and heard clearly in the living room of 221B.

“John Watson, watch your language!”

“What now Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock was bristling, angry at himself.

“John, see what you can find for us.” The woman’s voice directed.

The owl was already swooping around the building, his sharp eyes taking in all aspects of the area, seeking a weakness in the shady man’s urban fortress.

“Sherlock, get yourself around to the back of the house.”

There was an urgency in the owl’s voice that shook the cat from his furious pacing by the front steps and guided his paws back along the street to a small alleyway that led to the rear gardens of the grand houses.

With unnatural accuracy he padded straight to the back of suspect’s house, hopping lightly onto the top of the garden wall and then down again into the overgrown flower beds.

From here the house looked deserted, a distinctly different impression than was gained from the front view, where curtains still hung at windows even though the rooms behind them were empty.

John was nowhere to be seen, but a soft ‘click click click’ from behind a small, partially open, darkened window drew Sherlock’s attention.

On the ground below the window were one or two small brown/blond feathers and a roundish brownish shape was visible through the frosted glass.

Inside, John was pecking carefully at the latch. There had been just enough room for him to get through – the loss of feathers was a nuisance but they would grow back again – now, because of the lack of window ledge for a cat to stand on, he needed to get the window open wide enough for Sherlock to get through in one leap.

Mindful of the echoing emptiness of the house and the man who was somewhere within, John worked as fast as he dared, until eventually the latch rose and the window swung wide.

No sooner had he flown back out than Sherlock leapt in, his wordless thanks rippling through John’s mind as he set to work.

Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness in the house, Sherlock listened to the sounds within, the man walking – on one of the upper levels by the sound of it – and something else, softer yet more distressing to the cat’s senses – a quiet sobbing. Moving stealthily forward Sherlock opened his mind and broadcast his every sight, his every move.

Sitting in the shadow of the chimney John closed his eyes to watch.

In her armchair in 221B Mrs Hudson stared into the frozen water in her bowl and waited for the images to unfurl.

xXx

The journey along the darkened hallway was safe – all the movement was coming from above – but as he ascended the staircase Sherlock pushed his body closer in to the wall.

A pause on the first floor to listen before moving up to the next level.

From a door on his right the sobbing grew louder.

“The door’s shut.” His voice reached both his companions. “My only way in is to draw attention to myself.”

“Be careful.” John’s response was tense.

“How certain are you Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson knew the answer before it reached into her mind.

“There is no reason for a child to be crying in a house that is to all intents and purposes vacant and waiting to be sold.”

In Baker Street the old woman reached for the phone, while in the house opposite Regent’s Park a cat stretched up against a closed door, scratching and mewling pitifully.

xXx

In the incident room of Scotland Yard there was an air of quiet desperation. Three days, three children. The two that had been returned seem to have suffered no more than short term amnesia, no memory whatsoever of what had happened to them, and both of them kept humming the same piece of classical music.

Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team were sifting through the meagre witness statements and evidence, trying to find more threads to connect the abductions.

“It’s no good Sir,” Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan sighed as she slumped down in a chair at the conference table and stared blankly at the papers scattered across its surface. “We’re getting nowhere. All the children were taken from the same area, and the two who have so far been returned have turned up in Regent’s Park.”

“Our patrols?”

“Uniform have officers on foot as well as regular drive rounds by officers in cars in both pick-up and dump areas, but they’ve found nothing. Royal Parks Police are keeping their office open and have officers volunteering for night patrols within the park to augment our own efforts.”

“Forensics have identified rat faeces on the children’s clothing, common brown rats according to Anderson, the type that you will find all over London. Wherever there’s rubbish, there’s rats.”

“So…?”

“So he’s either keeping them in a shed of some kind, open to rat infestation, or he keeps rats and lets them run loose in whatever building he has them in.”

“And it must be a building because of the cold.”

Lestrade nodded. “They would be suffering hypothermia – or dead – if they had been kept out of doors overnight.”

There was nothing more to be said, and the silence settled heavily over the officers in the room, only to be broken moments later by the shrill ringing of the telephone.

Sally reached across to pick it up.

“Incident room.”

“Sergeant Donovan,” the tinny voice of the call handler crackled into the silence. “I have a caller who insists on speaking to whoever is in charge of the child kidnapping case.”

Lestrade reached across and took the receiver from her hand and placed it onto the conference speaker.

“Put them through.”

There was a loud click and a hiss, then the call was connected.

“This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, how can I help you?”

“Oh, Inspector,” the voice at the other end sounded like somebody’s favourite granny. “I’ve just come back from looking for my cat, my Sherlock, he got himself lost you see…”

“I’m sorry Mrs…”

“Hudson dear, Mrs Hudson.”

“I’m sorry Mrs Hudson, but there’s really nothing we can do to help you find your cat.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Donovan grimacing, and other officers deflating after thoughts that a new lead were dashed by the dotty old lady’s words. That however, was to change with her next sentence.

“No dear, you misunderstand; I thought I saw him wandering around the Outer Circle, by Regents Park, so I walked down there and I heard a child crying – very quietly, but definitely crying.”

“A child?”

“Yes Inspector, a child. And the sound came from a house I know to be empty.”

That caught every officer’s attention, and the whole room suddenly was abuzz with movement.

Mrs Hudson proceeded to give them the address, adding that they must be sure to look out for her poor Sherlock who was still lost out there, and was then handed back to the call handler to give her own details so that they could take her statement later.

As he replaced the receiver Lestrade looked to Sally Donovan, who was already organising the team to check out the house.

Maps of the area were pulled up on the large projector screen, and the houses in that street scrutinised carefully.

“It looks,” said one Detective Constable “like the houses have both front and back access points.”

“Right, so we need to make sure we have both covered?”

Sally started to write two lists, while Lestrade instructed the officers on how they were going to handle the retrieval.

xXx

Sherlock had been scratching and meowing for several minutes before the door opened.

“How the hell did you get in here?” The voice was strange, almost childlike, yet the words were forceful and harsh.

Looking up Sherlock put on his best ‘lost kitty’ look and meowed piteously while his sharp eyes, beguilingly masquerading as sadly pleading, took in everything about the man, knowing that John and Mrs Hudson would also see it.

Ducking his head back down the cat weaved between the man’s legs and on into the room, swiftly looking around him.

The door was kicked shut behind him, and before he could evade capture a small yet undoubtedly masculine hand grasped him by the scruff of his neck and picked him up. John’s squawk of indignation on his behalf echoed through his mind, but he brushed it aside in favour of making the most of this vantage point.

The child lay half unconscious, quietly sobbing, on a makeshift operating table, wearing a set of headphones attached to a laptop, but that wasn’t all he was attached to. A machine was slowly draining his blood, feeding it directly into the body of another child, a child that looked far too ill to be out of hospital.

At the same time as he felt the wave of John and Mrs Hudson’s horror wash over him Sherlock became a writhing mass of hissing, biting, scratching feline, yowling and struggling until the kidnapper dropped him, swearing and rubbing at his torn hands and face.

In an instant the cat jumped up onto the kidnapped child, his sharp teeth grasping and pulling out the cannula that was allowing the machine to take his blood.

“Why you fucking…” The man leapt after him, but Sherlock tore off around the room, leaping at the switches on the machine before trying to leap on the man’s back. He mistimed his jump, and the perpetrator caught hold of him and flung him against the wall, temporarily winding him.

In the distance John could see the police approaching the house. He had to do something to prevent Sherlock being murdered before they could get in and rescue the child. Not giving himself too much time to think about what he was about to do, the owl flew upwards before diving head first down the chimney following the sound of shouting and screeching, instinctively taking the correct flue leading down into the room where Sherlock was currently chasing and dodging around.

John burst out of the fireplace, and the room filled with a cloud of soot and dust, choking all the occupants, including the two creatures.

The noise from the upper floor of the house was now loud enough to be heard by the approaching police officers, and without hesitation they burst in through the front door, their footsteps swift and heavy as they followed the sounds of crashing and confusion until they burst into the upper bedroom where the kidnapper was trying to shake the life out of a black cat with one hand while fending off what looked like a short, stocky and very angry black crow.

Instinctively Sally Donovan slammed the door shut behind her while Lestrade and two other officers grabbed the kidnapper, forcing him to let go of the cat, pulling his arms behind him and cuffing him.

“No!” the man screamed, an insane and fanatical light in his eyes. “No mustn’t get in the way! I can’t stop this, now that I’ve found a match my brother needs a complete blood transfusion – I have to give him all of the blood!”

A quick check of both children showed Sally that the kidnapped child has been drained of a dangerously high amount of his blood and without second thought she called for an ambulance. The other child was cold and not breathing.

“This one’s dead Sir.”

And unearthly howl ripped from the perpetrator’s throat.

“No, no, no!” he cried “They should have done more at the hospital; they should have changed his blood, taken away the leukaemia, made him well again! He can’t be dead; I was giving him clean blood….”

Lestrade allowed the two officers to take the ranting prisoner downstairs to await the police van that was coming to take him to Paddington Green police station, then took off his jacket and laid it over the kidnapped child.

Sally Donovan meanwhile was listening to the headphones, a frown on her face.

“What?”

 

“It sounds like some kind of self-hypnosis recording Sir; he must have used this to remove any memories of what happened to the other children. And listen…” she held the headphones towards the Detective Inspector. “…In the background, the strange tune the children have been humming.”

“Danse Macabre by Camille Saints Saens.” Sherlock huffed, his acutely sensitive hearing picking up the melody. “Imbecile!”

“Those puncture marks must have been blood tests – he was looking for the right blood group.” Sally added, pulling on latex gloves and picking up a series of test tubes and other laboratory paraphernalia.

In the corner of the room Sherlock sneezed, the soot irritating his nose, and perched above him on the ornate picture rail John was trying to shake the soot from his feathers – he needed to fly, to get himself clean.

“Hello.” Lestrade said, picking up the cat. “I don’t suppose you belong to a Mrs Hudson of 221B Baker Street?”

Sherlock sneezed again.

“Stupid!”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson’s voice was scolding. “Don’t be rude. Let him bring you home.”

“Oh!” Sally exclaimed as she looked up. “I thought that was a bird that had fallen down the chimney, but it’s an owl!”

Holding the cat close to his chest Lestrade also looked up at the bird sitting on the carved, decorative rail.

“Poor thing.” He said softly, stepping back as if to give it space. “I imagine though if he hadn’t fallen down the chimney…”

“Jumped.” Sherlock’s smirk was obvious in his voice.

“Flew.” John corrected haughtily.

“…I wouldn’t have given much for Kitty’s chances with that madman.”

Sherlock stared at John, just daring him to say something.

“Shall I open the window and let him out?”

“Yeah, it’ll be better than having it flapping about once forensics get in here.”

Matching deed to word Sally opened the window just enough for the owl to get through and moved out of the way.

“Bye Kitty!” John snickered as he flew out and away, heading for 221B and his reward.

Choosing to ignore him, Sherlock instead decided that he too wanted to go home. Thinking that if he made himself agreeable the man would put him down he started to purr and rub the side of his head against the man’s chest, but much to his chagrin the man just held him tighter and scratched between his ears.

“So, am I to take you back to Mrs Hudson? I’m sure she’s wondering where you’ve got to.”

“Shall I, Sir?” a young Detective Constable asked from the doorway.

“No Staples, that’s okay. I need to thank the old lady and take a quick statement from her.” He glanced at his watch. “Ten thirty. Hopefully she’s still be up and about.”

xXx

John flew into the living room just as Martha Hudson was replacing the candles in the water filled bowl.

“He wants a statement.” She said, turning away to hurry through to the kitchen.

“So long as he’s gone by midnight.” John replied. “I don’t want him here…”

“No, neither do I dear, don’t worry. You head up to the flat out of the way, I’m sure Sherlock will find his way up to you when he comes in. Neither of you will want to waste any time, come twelve o’clock.”

John swooped away, leaving Mrs Hudson to put the kettle on and set out the tea things. By the time a pot of tea had been made and the biscuit barrel set out on the table there was a light tapping at the front door.

“Hello?” Mrs Hudson peered over the door chain at Lestrade’s warrant card, and then saw the cat in the policeman’s arms. “Oh you’ve found him! Sherlock!” She slipped the chain and opened the door properly, holding out her arms for to take the black cat.

“Mrs Hudson? I’m sorry, I know it’s late but I wondered if you could spare me half an hour to take your statement?”

“Of course, come in. I’ve just made a pot of tea.” Letting him follow her into the ground floor living room, she continued to witter. “Did you find the crying child? Was it the one they were talking about on the news?”

“Yes it was, and thanks to you we think he’ll be alright.”

“Oh thank goodness!” Mrs Hudson brought an extra cup and poured tea for the Inspector, then settled down and looked keenly at him. “Now, what is it you want to know?”

“I just need you to tell me exactly what took you past the house, what you saw and heard, as accurately as you can. Hopefully we won’t need to call you as a witness, but if I take the details now then we can have it typed up and you can sign it as and when we present it as evidence.”

With a nod the old lady sipped her tea, and then launched into why she was wandering around outside Regent’s park at night. Neither of them took any notice of the cat as he slipped out of the room and headed up the stairs.

xXx

By the time Lestrade let himself out of 221B Baker Street Sally was waiting in the car, the engine idling.

“I left the forensic guys with DC Staples.” She said as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Did you get a statement?”

Lestrade chuckled.

“Yeah.”

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing only… well, this job must be making me fanciful – she looks about the same age as my mum, but when I looked into her eyes… well, I’d have put her at close to a hundred, I could almost see the history of the world in those eyes.” He gave himself a shake and clipped on his seatbelt, adding with a smile “Amazing lady though, very on the ball.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.” Sally nodded towards the window where the curtain had been pulled aside and the old lady waved a hand in farewell, a knowing smile on her face.

Waving back, the officers pulled away.

They would have been astounded if they had seen what happened as the clock struck twelve…

xXx

It was as if a thick fog had descended within the house.

 In the ground floor living room the witch sat in front of the fire, crossed her hands over her chest, closed her eyes and waited. Before long a dark skinned young man, his body decorated with tattoos of ancient symbols, his body bare except for a skin loincloth he wore a large number of gold bangles and armlets, and on his head a bead and feather headdress.  As the fog cleared he smiled, and Mrs Hudson – her face and figure transformed and resembling that of a woman in her mid-twenties – reached out to take him in her arms.

“Cetshwayo, sthandwa sami.”

xXx

Up in the bedroom on the first floor, the fog swirled around two figures that were entwined on the bed.

Once the Work was completed the owl and the cat had retired to the room to wait, as they always did, the owl nestling in the centre of the duvet, the cat curled around him. Now the fog cleared to reveal two men – one tall and dark haired with alabaster skin, the other shorter, stockier, his golden hair and tanned skin a stark contrast to the man curled around him.

The dark haired man drew in a deep breath, his nose buried in the soft blond hair at the nape of the other’s neck.

“John.” He sighed, his deep voice causing goosebumps to rise on the smaller man’s skin.

That man curved his back so that it pushed deeper into the protection of the other’s chest and one hand reached around to stroke lovingly along smooth buttock and hairless thigh while the other closed over the hand pressed against his chest, entwining fingers and gently rubbing it across his heart.

“We did good.” He whispered.

“We did.” Sherlock replied, “and we’ve earned our reward.”

As one they stretched out, and John turned in Sherlock’s arms to lay on his back, staring up into his eyes.

“You’re beautiful – almost too beautiful to be real.”

“John...”

“No Sherlock, don’t tell me I’m being fanciful, this life we have... It would be meaningless if I didn’t have you.”

Something tightened in Sherlock’s chest and he leant down to capture the other man’s lips, softly at first, and then with increasing urgency as John’s hands gripped at his prominant hipbones and then pushed against him in an agonisingly slow and langourous grind.

“Ohhh!” the sigh trembled up from Sherlock’s stomach, finding release on his lips as pulled the smaller man close. “I want...”

“Please.”

Sherlock raised a hand to John’s face, tracing every line and shadow with delicate fingertips before dragging them across kiss swollen lips.

John’s tongue flashed out, tasting the whorls of his lover’s fingerprints, scraping his teeth gently where his tongue had led. Sherlock groaned.

Pushing himself up onto his knees, the dark haired man cajoled and chivvied the other to lift his hips, pushing a pillow underneath with one hand, while the fingers that had been teased with tongue and teeth now slipped between smiling lips, stealing moisture which he put to good use moments later.

John’s eyes rolled back in his head as Sherlock’s saliva slicked fingers slid teasingly across his perineum to circle the tight ring of muscle, easing in slowly, revelling in the fluttering of the internal muscles, working gently to add a second, and then a third finger, stretching and preparing him.

“Now Sherlock, I need...” but he couln’t finish his sentence as the brush of fingertips across his prostate stole his breath and caused stars to burst behind his eyelids.

“Let me take you.” The baritone voice entered his ear and filled every muscle and sinew, every vein every organ, and John almost lost it then and there.

Barely restraining himself, he allowed the taller man to flip him over and pull him close, waiting until he could feel the hard heat of Sherlock’s cock push against him, stretching him and slipping in, pushing until the whole plump, engorged mushroom shaped head moved past the tight muscle then with a sound that was a cross between a groan and a growl John pushed back, impaling himself fully, drawing a gasping cry from the other man, tensing the muscles in his arms as his lover draped himself across his shoulders, both of them moving in a rhythm as old as time, complementing each other with pushing, thrusting movements.

Long slim fingers moved teasingly down John’s chest and stomach, to finally stroke softly across his cock, feeling its weight hanging hot and heavy between his legs. The smaller man groaned as Sherlock set to stroking in time to his thrusts.

It wasn’t long before steady rhythm became erratic, almost disjointed thrusts, and the groans became almost wild, animalistic cries until John finally spilled his seed into Sherlock’s hand, his muscles contracting hard around his lover, buried deep within him, dragging the dark haired man to his own fulfilment.

Drained, the two men slowly collapsed onto the bed, twisting about so that they lay entwined on top of the covers, heedless of the mess they had made as hands and lips continued to worship and explore each other’s bodies.

Most would have drifted into sated sleep, but these two didn’t want to waste a moment of the precious time they shared, time that was granted to them all too infrequently.

With soft murmers and increasingly teasing touches, energy returning they moved together once more, and then afterwards, for a third time as they cleansed their bodies in the spray of a warm shower.

Their lust slaked, finally, and with gentle hands washing each other, Sherlock and John at last speak of what they know is to come soon.

“Four hundred years.” John murmured as he ran soapy hands around and down the other’s back, sweeping cheekily between buttocks and back to squeeze as he washed. “I wish...”

“Shhhh.” Sherlock gentles him with soft kisses and touches. “What is cannot be changed. Mistakes we made back then keep us as we are now.” Pressing his forehead against John’s he closed his eyes, feeling John’s hands still against his skin. “At least we have this, we have each other, and maybe one day the curse will be lifted – all we have to do is...”

“Do good deeds.” A wry chuckle escaped from John’s lips. “We sound like a couple of boy scouts.”

“Even so, we can talk to each other.” Sherlock’s comment had both men looking in the direction of the living room, and the old lady who occupied that space. “She can only talk to Cetshwayo once we have done the Work with a satisfactory outcome.”

“Poor Martha.”

“Poor Cetshwayo.”

Silence settled around them as the water rinsed them both, and they stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms until the cold call of the approaching dawn sent ripples through their bodies.

Turning off the taps they stared sorrowfully at each other for a moment, before reaching for warm, thick fluffy towels, drying each other with tender strokes and soft touches before dropping the towels where they stand and moving back to the bedroom.

And they returned there not a moment too soon. As a heat haze enveloped them they reached for each other one last time, stole one last kiss, before fur and feathers returned, and once more a cat and a little owl left the room, the cat returning to his favourite spot on the sofa, the owl to his nest in the ruined chapel.

With a sad smile Mrs Hudson reached out and scratched Sherlock’s head.

“Another case solved.” She sighed, a mixture of sadness and satisfaction in her voice. “And here we are again, waiting for the next problem to solve.”

xXx

Across London, in Lauriston Gardens, Brixton, a fourth ‘suicide’ was discovered…

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Mrs Hudson’s words to Cetshwayo were translated from English to Zulu by Google Translate...


End file.
